


but don't take love off the table, yet

by mido



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Eating Disorder, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 19:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13083375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mido/pseuds/mido
Summary: So he finds himself wasting away, and he finds himself not too concerned with doing much about it.





	but don't take love off the table, yet

Anyone sane would've noticed. Malik was already used to living off small portions from his time spent underground, where the only sustenance he, Rishid and Ishizu came by outside of mealtimes were dried mushrooms and raw beansprouts. Adjusting to life above ground came with stark differences, of course, yet Malik found he couldn't push himself to chew upon anything more than a half-serving of flatbread, and perhaps a fig if he was feeling especially ravenous. And though Malik was quite fit for a boy his age, the jab of his ribs against his torso and the concave adjacent known as his stomach looked a little too slim to be healthy. 

Yet, Bakura is not exactly what anyone would call sane.

Therefore he goes about his days oblivious. Bakura's not much of a cook, and Malik has been blessed with more skill than him in that arena-- however he doesn't look up from his plate enough to notice just how little Malik has served himself, a stark contrast to Bakura's double portion. Tonight he's fried up dumplings, effectively scenting the kitchen with pork fat and garlic.

Bakura leans against the rail of the balcony of their apartment, a phone raised to his ear. The firm lilt of Ishizu's voice rings from the other end, too preoccupied with explaining recent museum affairs before she realizes her own impoliteness, then asking about his and her brother's health and endeavours. Bakura gives a noncommittal response, talking absentmindedly about their ride to and through Cairo the other day on Malik's motorcycle and about Ryou's last email, the contents of which indicated he'd been accepted into his university of choice (a liberal arts college, one his father hadn't been too fond of, but nevertheless). Ishizu listens with a quiet ear, allowing Bakura to exhaust all possible topics before taking the conversation back into her own hands.

"Malik is cooking, yes? He's always been fond of food he prepared himself as opposed to takeout." She explains, tone tentative, as if testing the waters. Bakura grunts in affirmation, just as said male calls from the kitchen with a declaration of supper. "I gotta go." He tells her, watching the landscape below with a day's fatigue in his expression. "Dinner's ready."

Ishizu giggles, as if Bakura's made a joke. "Do enjoy. I'd like to talk to Malik later, tell him for me?" She asks, her structure giving the indication of a question despite the obvious command. Bakura grins. "Yeah, yeah, sure. Bye." Once he hears her say the same, he hangs up. 

He shuffles back inside, closing the sliding door behind him. Once he reaches the kitchen he plops himself down at the table, licking his lips unconsciously at the sight of a heap of dumplings, sizzling away in a skillet over low heat. Malik plucks each one off and sets them on a plate with a pair of chopsticks, carrying them in one hand and a soda in the other. He places the bottle by Bakura's plate, reaching over the table to do so, and sets the dumplings between them both. He sits down then. 

Bakura, never having been one for manners, grins and stabs a fork into one immediately, not even bothering to dip it in the saucer of soy sauce that was already sitting on the table when he entered. Unceremoniously he shoves the entire thing in his mouth, savoring the tenderness of the pork and the very slight crunch of the cabbage as oil drips down his chin.

Malik covers his mouth with his hand, smiling into his palm and muffling a chuckle. It'd been years since he and Bakura had begun their current living arrangement, and Bakura still ate his food like it'd disappear if he didn't do so fast enough. It was probably a valid concern, back then. 

He pushes those thoughts away, picking a single dumpling off the plate and dipping it in the soy sauce before taking a bite. His stomach lurches, but he suppresses it-- he has to eat something, if only to avoid suspicion. Truly, he'd prefer to forgo an evening meal altogether, as eating before bed was the easiest way to gain weight, but since that wasn't an option he made it a point to go for a run every night. It's easier to convince people that you're just fit if you exercise as well as eating less. 

By his second dumpling Malik is full. He brings his dishes to the sink and drops them in the basin, running water over the residue to keep anything from sticking while Bakura digs into his fifth. As he moves to leave the room Bakura looks up like he has something to say, but his mouth is full, so Malik doesn't stop. 

The evening comes with little resistance, the sun lounging lazily on the horizon as the sky dips into purple and navy. "Your sister wants to talk to you." Bakura mentions before Malik heads out for his run, the former leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. For some reason the position unnerves him-- could Bakura have caught on? Did he tell Ishizu? Does Rishid know? Malik stomps the thoughts out of the forefront of his mind, though, nodding and slipping his phone into his pocket. "I'll call her." He tells him, before he leaves. 

He ends up calling only twenty minutes into his run, having stopped for a water break at a nearby park. "Sister?" He says when she answers. 

They carry on usual conversation for a while, Ishizu telling him about Rishid and Malik telling her about Bakura, but the younger of the two can feel something is off. There's a hint of worry in her voice, something betraying her calm facade. 

"Are you well, Malik?" She asks.

"What do you mean?" He answers with a question of his own, eliciting a sigh from the other. His heart has picked up its pace in his chest, despite him sitting still.

"I'm sure you know exactly what I mean. You always were too perceptive." She murmurs.

For reasons unknown, his blood begins to boil. "Bakura told you." 

If he could see her, he's sure he'd see her shaking her head. "No, he hasn't noticed himself, I don't believe." She takes a breath. "You do know it's over, don't you?"

"Of course I know." He snaps. "Not everything is about the goddamn Pharaoh." 

 

 

When he returns Bakura is snoring on the couch, a Japanese game show blaring on the television. Malik slips off his sneakers and heads straight to the bathroom for a shower, ducking inside before he hears Bakura stir at the sound of the front door closing. 

The warm water pelts against his back like pebbles, the raised scars still raw even now. Shampoo suds run down his shoulders and chest as he washes it out of his hair, and when he opens his eyes he finds himself facing the mirror above the sink, barely visible from through the fogged glass. His figure is vague, yet defined, and only then does he notice just how skinny he's got to being. Ishizu was wrong, at least-- he wasn't this way because of the Pharaoh, or the lack thereof, he supposes. It wasn't even Bakura, or Ryou, or Rishid, even, it was just-- just him and his own hatred. _Just me, myself and I,_ he thinks sardonically. 

He turns away, preoccupying himself with conditioner. 

A towel hangs loosely around his waist as he walks to his room, another one draped around his shoulders as his hair drops tiny beads of water onto it as he moves. He doesn't bother with anything fancy, just nightclothes that hang on his frame like curtains, with how small he's become now.

It pisses him off. He used to carry himself like he were God among humans, and this, this _thing_ , it's only served to remind him of his own morality. He abhors feeling so susceptible to human error, or human emotion, in this case. It's unfitting to a wielder of a Millenium Item.

Former wielder, he reminds himself.

Outside his room, Bakura has since sat up on the couch, leaning back and craning his neck to stare at the ceiling as he rewinds through his day. It's become a habit of his recently, going through his memories of each day as if it would be his last. Nobody had the Tauk now; nobody could tell him if he was going to die tomorrow or not. So he reminisces. 

He thinks back to his conversation with Ishizu, and this time her words have the effect she intended the first time. _He's always been fond of food he prepared himself._

Bakura knows it's something trivial to latch onto, but he1 feels like there's something behind it that he's not catching on to. Malik has made it a point to cook nightly, yes, and he never did join Bakura when the latter ordered takeout. As a matter of fact, he seemed to stay out longer running when they did get premade meals. He'd been staying out exercising even more than usual, lately. Bakura had thought it was more of a middle finger to the world that expected him to grow soft, more than anything, but Ishizu had never agreed, had she?

Though the realization hits him like a brick, he doesn't start or anything of the sort. He already knew that the vessel, Yugi, had been dealt severe depression after the Ceremonial Duel, and Bakura figures with everything he and Malik went through, there'd be some sort of similar situation that formed in them both. The only difference was Bakura's pride prevented him from showing it. 

The television continues to blare, yelling that a contestant had just won one of the top cash prizes, but Bakura isn't listening. 

 

 

The next morning when Malik wakes, Bakura is nowhere to be found; meaning, he retired from the couch to his bed. The television was muted, but it seems he forgot to turn it off when he went to sleep; Malik grabs the remote and presses the power button before their electrical bill climbs any higher. 

He pulls a bottle of water from the fridge and takes a swig before dressing himself in a tank top and yoga pants, preparing for his morning run. It's only when he's lacing up his sneakers does Bakura appear, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and dressed in what he wore yesterday. He yawns, then narrows his eyes at Malik. Said male quirks an eyebrow at him when that gaze travels to his torso, though it doesn't drop any lower. "Like what you see?" He grins, but it feels forced. Bakura's eyes return to his own, and he falters for a second before resuming his previous expression. "Not much." He mumbles, turning back to the hallway and leaving Malik in the doorway, dumbstruck. 

Outside the first traces of summer are beginning to blossom, with the sun's rays becoming more sweltering by the day. A breeze still runs its fingers through Malik's hair, keeping him from sweating too much, for which he is grateful. His feet pound against the pavement with every stride he takes. 

He takes this opportunity to let his mind wander, and unsurprisingly, the first thought that waltzes in is Bakura. He's probably figured it out, either from his own mediocre observations or from something Ishizu said in her usual cryptic way, but when Malik tries to guess how he'll react he finds that he can't even guess. Bakura was a sort of constant in his life, someone he didn't exactly confide in, but moreso just ended up close to. It was Bakura who'd begrudgingly calm him when he started to tremble, and it was Malik who Bakura sought out when he itched to hurt something, someone. Most of the time, they both ended up still alive, but every now and then there was a time where both Bakura and Malik would turn their noses up at each other until tomorrow. It was just something that happened, something usual in their relationship. 

If Malik was honest with himself, he should've figured Bakura would wise up eventually. The guy knew practically everything about him at this point, whether he wanted to or not. 

That's why when he returns, he makes a beeline for the bathroom instead of stopping by the kitchen for water. He steps into the shower just to rinse off, not wanting to wear his hair out from washing it too often, and steps out only minutes later, before the glass can fog up. He finds himself face to face with his reflection, now.

His ribs poke out in two knots near the top of his torso, and his stomach is flatter than a savannah. His bellybutton has begun to protrude slightly, from the lack of fat alone to push it inward. Malik runs his fingers down his chest and ribcage, digits catching on the grooves visible against his skin, and down to his abdomen, where his hips jut out from below his lack of a waist like spikes. He wrinkles his nose in disgust at the image he sees in the mirror, not having taken his gaze off it for a second. 

He ignores the tiny, thin pink lines littering the insides of his elbows. It's been too long to pretend to care about those anymore.

Bakura grabs his phone once he hears the shower start running, and he steps out onto the balcony before calling, just as a precaution. "Ishizu?" He asks.

"Yes." She answers. "Did you need something?"

He hesitates. "Did you talk to Malik?"

She makes an affirmative noise. "Yes, I--" she pauses-- "I think he's unwell, Bakura."

"No shit." He mutters, but she ignores him. "He told you?"

"No." She admits. "I made my own prediction."

Bakura finds it amusing, how she can practically see the future even without the Tauk. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"It was something you had to notice yourself." He can hear the melancholy in her voice. "Can I ask a favor of you?"

"Take care of him, right?" Bakura hums. "I don't think I really have a choice, do I." 

He can hear the smile in her words, this time. "Not especially, no."

Malik leaves the bathroom just as Bakura walks back inside, prompting them to meet each other's gaze for a split second before Malik ducks into his bedroom. Bakura sighs inwardly.

 

 

The evening is when Malik is forced to stay in the same room as Bakura for more than a minute, despite desperately wanting not to after this morning. It wasn't as if Bakura's words had an effect on his ego, no-- it was more fear driving his flight response. Fear that Bakura had figured out, and even scarier, that he was going to do something about it. 

When he sets dinner on the table, Bakura's looking at him expectantly, like he's waiting for Malik to do something. Malik bristles unconsciously under his gaze, keeping his eyes turned down and picking at the small portion of chicken salad he's given himself. Eventually Bakura turns his eyes to his own meal, digging in as per usual, enabling Malik to calm down slightly as he takes a bite. 

However, not everything goes as planned. Malik's stomach begins to churn with the forewarnings of vomit as he looks down at his half-eaten salad, having plucked out only a cube of chicken or two and eating mostly greens. He sets his fork down, but when he moves to take his bowl to the trash can Bakura looks up, catching his eye. "Aren't you hungry?" He pokes. 

Malik's blood turns to ice. "I have a stomachache." He croaks, which isn't a complete lie; though it ached from lack of food, most likely. Bakura doesn't look convinced, though; "Maybe it's because you haven't eaten anything." He mutters, unconsciously hitting the nail on the head, causing Malik to nearly drop his bowl. Still, he forces himself to keep a poker face, and turns to Bakura. "I'll be fine." He assures him. "It's just one meal."

Only once he’s safely out on his evening run does Malik allow himself to relax and think things through. He wonders how Bakura figured it out-- he hadn’t noticed in the previous months, or at least hadn’t let on if he had. Some part of him wants to be furious, and to scream; it’s not the fucking Pharaoh, it’s not fucking Bakura, it’s not fucking _anything_ , no, it’s just Malik and his ugliness, why couldn’t anyone let that be? Another part wants to quit while he’s ahead, to just give up on the whole thing, maybe gain a couple pounds back to avoid suspicion. 

Another part, a small section in the back of his mind, wants to waste away just to spite everyone that ever doubted it.

He stops at the same park he did yesterday, again for a water break. When he reaches into his pocket for his phone to check the time, he finds it empty. _I must’ve left it at home,_ he thinks, unconcerned. 

Malik’s ringtone sounding throughout the apartment is the only invitation Bakura needs to pick up the other’s phone, peeking at the caller ID before answering in place of Malik himself. “Yeah?” He says, yawning.

Rishid’s bass resounds from the other end. “Is Malik there?” 

Bakura doesn’t exactly snap to attention, but he straightens up slightly, despite knowing Rishid can’t see him right now. “He’s out for a run.” 

A deep sigh floats into his ear, and Bakura starts to wonder if he knows the Ishtars a little too well, because he can practically envision Rishid’s expression. “Tell him to give me a call back when he gets back, will you?”

“Wait--” Bakura starts, before the other can hang up, then pauses. “Did Ishizu tell you?” 

“Yes.” Rishid answers without hesitation. “Malik has always lived off little, but this is getting to be unhealthy, even for him, I’m sure… tell him to call me, please?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Bakura says, numb. His eyes have locked onto a small object in the corner of Malik’s room, having glimpsed the shine of the moon outside for a split second and caught Bakura’s attention. He doesn’t look to register that Rishid has hung up until a dial tone sounds against his ear, and he tosses the phone back onto the bed. 

Stepping closer, he peers down at the unidentified object. Before he picks it up, he’s not completely sure what it is, but once he grips the handle he’s sure of it. He stares at the blade in disbelief, as if he’s never seen one before. The straight razor stares back at him, reflecting his expression.

The sound of the front door opening is enough for Bakura to drop it out of surprise, but he snatches it back up as soon as he does, folding it and shoving it into his back pocket. He knows Malik shaves, yes, but he’s always used a regular razor, not a straight razor, and he can imagine what other issues he may have on top of the food thing. Though the urge to bolt from the room is there, Bakura’s logic kicks in for once, and he remembers that Malik heads straight to the bathroom after his runs for a shower, as he can’t stand feeling sweat on his skin. Only once he hears the shower begin to run does he escape to his own room.

Malik showers quickly, as usual, though he towels off his body and hair especially in a hurry today, purposefully avoiding the mirror’s watchful gaze. He feels safer in his room, without the threat of showing him his own ugliness, without the temptation of food, without the fear of how much Bakura knows. Once in his own room, he can dress himself in clothes that camouflage his figure and reapply his kohl in the small, handheld mirror he keeps turned over when he’s not using it. Once in his own room, he can draw single file lines over the old ones, and watch them cry instead of doing so himself.

He tries to go to sleep earlier that night, making a beeline for his bedroom after a glass of water from the fridge, but Bakura blocks the way. “Rishid called.” He says with an unreadable poker face. “He wants to talk to you.” 

Malik smiles slightly despite himself, both appreciating and detesting his brother’s concern simultaneously. “I’ll call him.” He promises, moving to walk past Bakura, but the other steps in his way. “Malik.” He whispers, eyes filling up with rage like gauges at the other’s confused expression. 

Soon he finds himself backed up into the kitchen again, and seconds later finds himself with his back against the wall. “Bakura?” He questions, tone soft and wobbly, like a child who knows he’s done something wrong but still won’t own up. Bakura opens his mouth to speak, to say something to break the tension or increase it, but grits his teeth before any words can come out. Instead he reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a familiar object that glints in the light. Malik nearly has a heart attack.

“Care to explain?” Bakura’s tone is challenging, now, as if he’s daring him to fight his accusation. Normally, Malik would never back down from a battle, but he’s not so stupid as to not realize when he’s cornered-- his shoulders droop, and he grins artificially. “You won’t believe me if I said I was trying a new shaving routine, would you.” The question is left without the indication of a question at the end, enabling Bakura to confirm his suspicions. “No.” He says curtly. “No, I really fucking wouldn’t.” 

Malik’s eyes catch on a crevice in the floor, between the wooden boards; he doesn’t know what to say, how to calm this situation down, how to placate Bakura now. He’d always been so grateful for his own life, or, his own chance at a life again, and suicide cases were one of the top ways to piss him off. _Try being dead for 3,000 years._ He’d say. _See if they still want to die then._

“So, is this just some hobby you picked up so the whole not-eating thing would be more believable? Or are you just that bent on attention?” Bakura sneers, purposely baiting him. Malik’s eyes snap up to his own, practically burning red, but not with hatred-- no, what surprises Bakura most is not rage, vexation or loathing-- it’s tears, mere and salty as the ones already escaping down Malik’s cheeks. Bakura is caught off guard-- the Malik he knew from Battle City would’ve at _least_ slapped him for that comment, but the Malik here, the _present_ Malik, he just glares. Just glares and weeps, ever so quietly.

 

 

Ishizu arrives the next day, with Rishid in tow. Bakura’s glad to see them, for once in his life, and even goes to pick them up from the airport, if only to get out of the apartment’s atmosphere. A voice in the back of his head says that he shouldn’t be so comfortable leaving Malik alone when he’s like this, but he knows Malik would never go that far. At least, he hopes this Malik wouldn’t. 

Unbeknownst to Bakura, Malik takes the opportunity, albeit in a different way than Bakura had assumed, in the back of his mind. He slips into the other’s room and easily locates his treasure-- Bakura had always had a habit of hoarding his possessions, even back in the days he was known by the title of “Thief King”. He then heads to the balcony, sliding the door open wide so the stifling air of inside could escape. Leaning against the railing, he twirls the straight razor between his fingers as he watches the sun rise, grabbing a hold of the horizon and tugging itself up onto it like the edge of a cliff. He wants to climb up too, to stand up on the railing with his arms raised at his sides and his palms open, ready for the wind to knock him off and make him lose his footing at any moment. 

But he does not. He simply stands there, leaning and watching, comforted by the familiar weight in his hands. 

There’s only one guest room in their apartment, but knowing the situation, Bakura will likely give up his room to Rishid and take the couch out of necessity. Malik chases the train of thought, wanting to think about something other than l’appel du vide, but it escapes him just like the breeze threading through his hair, only for a second. Wind has been coming through less and less lately, with the entrance of summer onto stage, and Malik feels like he’s saying goodbye to a friend, one that’s been able to visit less and less until they can’t at all. He wonders if this is how his sister feels, how Rishid feels. How Bakura feels. 

He goes back inside once he hears the key in the front door, slipping the razor into his pocket and locking the balcony door behind him to prevent suspicion. Malik’s sitting on the couch when Rishid and his sister enter, Bakura trailing behind them to close the door. Ishizu rushes to him, wrapping her arms around him and pressing her face into his shoulder, murmuring sweet nothings like _you are not alone, we’re here for you, you have a future ahead of you better than this._ Rishid looks at him, refraining from contact until Ishizu is done, and places a hand on Malik’s shoulder. “Malik,” he murmurs, “we are here.” 

It’s only when he hears this does Malik realize that Bakura’s not in the room, likely having either left altogether or having headed to his own room to give the three some privacy. It’s strange-- he’d figured that if they were going to have an intervention, Bakura would be spearheading it, if he could get Ishizu to step down. Somehow he feels he shouldn’t be letting his thoughts wander to Bakura when his siblings are before him, having taken time off just to see him.

So he smiles at Ishizu, and he places his own hand over Rishid’s. “Yes.” He says, quietly. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't even that good


End file.
